Cordite Symphony
by Ambrelle Shirak
Summary: Nature Abhors a Vacuum. The Chinese, the Greeks, and the Turkish are all vying for control of South Boston. With the world thinking the Saints were killed in a prison riot, the boys are free to continue their Mission from God. With Doc's granddaughter complicating matters, will they be able to keep the charade? Developing Murphy/OC
1. Prelude

Prelude

**A Capo**

_Smecker and Bloom_

_Undisclosed Location: Somewhere in Argentina_

"Sometimes, Eunice, you are a certified genius!" A veiled jibe wrapped inside praise: that was how Smecker always treated her. Once upon a time, he would dangle just barely enough information for her to suss out the truth, but now, things were different. She'd served him faithfully, and well. Spending the rest of her life in exile with him seemed a small price to pay, to serve the Greater Good. They were supposed to be the boys' guardian angels on high, taking care of the problems they had no knowledge of before it affected their ability to follow their Higher Calling.

Smecker was animated in the wake of her latest suggestion. Pacing around the table with his hands going this way and that as he began to put together the hows and whys. Suddenly, he stopped, across the table from her, silhouetted by the pretty red terracotta rooftops of Argentina. "Why has it taken us this long to figure this out? Why?!"

She flinched when he raised his voice, avoiding eye contact for a few moments. He was still her mentor, her teacher, and she would always feel humbled in his presence.

"Maybe," she breathed in her drawling, Southern accent. "We subconsciously wanted Romeo to be completely recovered and able to survive the escape attempt."

"But it's not an escape attempt. It's an _assassination!_" Smecker was grinning, ear to ear, his wide mouth pulled into an expression that Bloom would call 'diabolical glee.' "We know they are all being held in separate wings, no contact, so what we're going to need is some organized movements."

"What about the Irish mob remnants? Most of them are in Hoag."

"They've been protecting the boys, why wou—" Smecker stopped, staring at Bloom across the table. She didn't think his grin could possibly grow, but there it was, getting wider, his eyes brightening. "A coup. Casualties of a gang war. I like what you're thinking, Eunice. Make it happen. Quick. Hurry. We have no time to lose!"

Bloom couldn't help but smile as she was waved off and dismissed by the man who'd taught her everything she'd ever known. She still adored him, as a child would look up to a big brother, and she had done much to gain his confidence and trust. But in the same way that a big brother always bosses around his little sister, Bloom would always be gopher. Not that she minded. She turned from the dining room, the place in the small compound that they'd lovingly nicknamed the War Room, and headed for the veranda.

Her heels clicked softly on the stone terrace. She'd traded in the severe FBI-spare skirts and jackets for the more flouncy, beautiful tourist-wear of the Argentinian coast. The sundress she wore was spattered with deep greens and tiny red flowers, both of which served to make her fair appearance stand out even more among the tanned natives. They were on halllowed ground, taking refuge in the living quarters that would normally be reserved for the Bishop of the area. They were under protection of the Roman Catholic Church, an entity, Bloom had learned through the past two years, that was extremely influential, extremely involved, but seriously lacking in ingenuity. That's where the boys came in. Where her, and Smecker's jobs were so important. She'd never before felt she were shepherding a flock, but here she was, shepherding a flock of three, those infamous Saints of South Boston.

She found the satellite phone sitting in its charger in the room Paul had claimed. Lifting it from its cradle, she traced the lines of the phone while reflecting on what she was about to do. This phone call would hold the lives of three men in the balance. Unbidden, the silly angular grin of David Greenly popped into her head, and she felt her chest tighten. The goofy, gangly detective had asked her out for drinks on more than one occasion. Her biggest regret, still, lingered around not accepting that offer. She turned the phone over in her hands a few times, before rapidly punching the numbers for the South Boston Police Precinct.

It took her a few minutes to get connected with her detective of choice, posing as a journalist seeking an interview. But when he finally picked up:

"This is Detective Dolly."

She sighed with tangible relief, feeling tension drain from her before she realized how nervous she was. Two years since the debacle and he still worked in the same station, the same beat. She couldn't help but thank God for small miracles.

"No. No names, Detective. No names, just action."

* * *

><p>Sacramental wine chilled in a small bucket at the end of the table. Smecker sat quietly while the strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons filled the small but opulent home. Eunice paced the length of their quaint War Room, heels clicking in time with the music. They had promised, and had yet to come back with word that all had gone well. The curtains fluttered with the ocean breeze. Argentina was in the depths of summer, the sun high and warm in the sky. But when Eunice closed her eyes, she could still picture the cold New England landscape. It was winter there: unforgiving snow blanketing the city. Mother Nature at her most indifferent, her coldest.<p>

In the center of the table, like a klaxon going off amid the sweet beauty of the Summertime movement, the satellite phone began to ring. Smecker pointed at it, eyes widening as he turned toward Bloom. She crossed to the table in two confident strides, poking her finger at the screen in her impatience. When the call finally connected, far-away and tinny, Dolly's Boston-accented voice crackled through the connection, sounding as exhausted and as drawn as Eunice herself felt.

"Safe in Southie."

Those were the only words spoken before the connection severed, but Bloom gave a little whoop of triumph, and hopped in the air in joy. Smecker calmed her with his large hands on her shoulders, bringing her back to earth. Even though his eyes were twinkling with the joy of knowing the boys were safe, his face was unsmiling. He smoothed Eunice's hair away from her face, watching her calm herself down.

"This is only the beginning." He whispered softly. "Things will get much harder before they get better. Are you _certain_ that they are safe staying in Boston?"

Eunice nodded slowly. "Between the Monsignor and the Irish-American community there, they should enjoy a period of anonymity while they get back on their feet."

"I do hope you're right. We can only help them so far."


	2. Chapter 1

First Movement

**Adagio**

_The Saints (and others)_

_Location: South Boston_

"Murphy. Murph. C'mon, little brudder, wake th' fook up." Connor kept tapping his brother's face, first one cheek, then the other, sometimes with the back of his hand, sometimes with the pads of his fingers. Even he was feeling a little fuzzy at the edges still, but whatever drug they'd whacked them all with, it had worked. All three of them had been dead, insensible, taken to the morgue, and then driven here, to the church. The Father hovered in the hallway, pacing back and forth between the door of the supply room, and the main church nervously. The two policemen were still in deep conference with the Bishop, and no one had yet explained to him what was going on.

"Maybe water?" Romeo suggested from behind him, looking down at Murphy as Connor kept trying to gently wake his brother up.

It had been two years. The wardens had made sure they were all split up, never to see each other again after they'd recovered from their wounds. Of the three, Romeo looked the most different. The prison had forced him to shave his mullet-mohawk, and his goatee. He looked small and vulnerable being clean-shaven. Even Connor's hair was shorter than he liked it, lacking the rakish spiking that got him all the girls before.

"Yah! Yah! Water!" Connor jumped at the idea, waving his hand for Romeo to fetch him a glass. Moments later, the Hispanic was back, pushing a cold glass into Conn's outstretched hand. Without even waiting a second more, Connor dumped the contents over his brother's face unceremoniously.

Murphy woke up sputtering and coughing, fists flying and feet kicking. He caught Connor with a glancing blow across the jaw before his brother managed to gather him into a crushing bear-hug. Two years. It'd been two years since he felt that familiar sensation. For a few moments, Murphy couldn't speak, instead just returning the crushing grip.

Romeo, getting teary-eyed while watching the reunion, finally gave up the ghost, and threw his arms around the two of them, joining in the brotherly love and blubbering something about how he'd missed them both so much. Murph hadn't changed much at all. He was still wiry, still pale, still darker than his brother. Connor ruffled his brother's hair and broke up the embrace first, shrugging his shoulders to get Romeo's arm off him. When he pulled back, he found Murphy staring at him, not the least bit upset about the glass of water to the face. Their eyes connected, and held one another's gazes. That was their connection. Anyone who looked at the twin's eyes could see that they were more than family. They were two halves to the same person, one soul split between two bodies.

Romeo backed slowly away, toward the door as the two brothers stared at one another. It was creepy twin-shit, a connection that he'd never have with another human being. There was an unspoken tension starting to ramp up in the room, and Romeo instinctively took up a look-out position at the door. Something would break, and there was this huge levy that would just burst through. Connor squeezed Murphy's shoulder, in silent expression of his love for his brother.

Murph's thin lips twisted into a half-grin, just a split second before he rocked forward off the cot and tackled his brother to the floor. Connor swore, and let Murph carry him down, but didn't let the fight end there. He twisted his shoulders into the floor and threw Murphy to one side, rolling over and following the momentum to take him atop his brother. Connor straddled Murphy for a split second of victory before Murphy, grinning like an idiot, arched his back and bucked his brother off. They tussled for a good five minutes, neither gaining the upper hand, neither really wanting to, and it continued until Murphy was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.

Connor flopped onto his back, panting as well, with a silly grin on his face. "Missed ye, li'l brudder."

Murphy answered by lifting his middle finger in the air, snickering helplessly.

"If the two of you are finished..."

Romeo jumped at the sound of the Bishop's voice behind his shoulder, and skittered out of the way, taking up a protective position between the brothers and the figures of authority. Familiar faces were in the group, Romeo recognize both Duffy and Dolly, each of them a little more gray, a little more lined for the two years they'd lived. He heard Connor getting to his feet, and Murphy sitting up with a soft grunt, both suddenly serious in the wake of the brawling reunion.

It wasn't the Bishop that came forward to talk, but the two detectives shouldering past the priests with soft apologies. Duffy, the taller, fairer of the two, gave Romeo's hand a solid shake, but when he reached for Connor's hand, the MacManus pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Everyone thinks you dead." Duffy started. "Public funeral, whole city is in mourning."

"You need to lay low." Dolly interjected. "No cowboy shit. Nobody dies. Nothing."

Murphy opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off from the Bishop. "You boys have a mission from God Himself. We are not countermanding the dictum of the Almighty, but we need to protect _you_. This is Father Anthony Cleary. We chose him to replace Father McKinney. It is our hope that should you need anything, you would go to him."

Connor glanced at Murphy. Murphy shrugged.

"Why should we believe ye?" Connor asked, stepping forward. Romeo took the hint and faded back to stand with Murphy. Murphy muttered something in Spanish, and Romeo nodded, grabbing a towel from a nearby shelf to let Murph dry off his face.

"You have some pretty influential, and persuasive friends, son." The Bishop smiled warmly, while Connor hunted his face for a hint or a clue to who he was talking about. Someone had been looking out for them. While he hadn't seen Murphy for two years, they'd managed to send messages, a few members of the old Irish gangs had approached them seeking clemency for their sins, and friendship from the Saints. Those old men had been told who they were, what they had done, and why the Russians, and the Italians, wanted them dead.

"Who'se clothes are these?" Murphy suddenly asked, realizing he was no longer wearing prison duds.

Father Cleary shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Funerary clothes."

Murphy made a sound like a terrified mouse and started tearing himself out of the suit. Romeo ducked as buttons went flying and the shirt was flung into the cot with disgust. Connor looked down at himself and felt his skin crawling in response to Murphy's panic, but he kept himself together. He was the cool-headed, and rational one after all.

"Now what're ye gonna wear, ye bloody idiot?" Connor rolled his eyes when Murphy finally got down to his skivvies. Connor tried to ignore the sight of the newest scars on his brother's body, but it was like trying to ignore a freight train bearing down on them. Murph tried to make light of it, stomping on the pants as though they might be living, before flashing his brother a cheeky grin. "Oh, tuck it in, ye numbskull."

Murphy glanced down and started to turn red. Tucking himself back into his boxers, he turned away from the gathered strangers with a huff. There were no secrets or modesty between the two brothers, but the handful of strangers in the room were another subject entirely. Romeo was trying not to laugh, and failing at his task; Murphy punched him hard in the arm when he guffawed at the situation.

The Bishop was pinching his nose, eyes tightly closed as if he were fighting a headache. Duffy and Dolly shrugged as if to say _we warned you_. The boys were still like adolescents in so many ways, and those that weren't used to their behavior often didn't know how to handle them.

"I'll get them some personal affects," Father Cleary stepped up to fill the silence. "Since they'll be staying here anyway."

"Oh, no, wait just a minute!" Connor and Murphy started talking over one another, both protesting the idea that they'd be living in a church for any length of time.

"Don't get me wrong, I love God as much as th' next man, but I cannae live inna house a' God. Nae with all the silence, and the lack a' drink an' smoke an'.." 

"I ain't seen a woman, much less been in th' company o' one in two years! Two years! Y'know what that does t'a man? There's no way I'd be able t'score a girl invitin' 'er back t'me place at the _Church!_"

"Boys! Boys!" Duffy stepped in, holding his hands up. "So, give us another option."

The brothers didn't even have to look at one another to know the answer. "McGinty's."

"The bar?" Duffy blinked slightly.

"Why not?" Murphy protested.

"We've known Doc since before we could drink." Connor pointed out. "He's trustworthy. He'd ne'er turn on us. An'... he's got a secret room where we can crash."

Duffy looked at Dolly. Dolly looked at the Bishop. The Bishop glanced toward the Father. One by one they each shrugged, trying to find fault in the thought. The cops knew South Boston, especially that neighborhood, no one would say a thing if two men that were supposed to be dead started showing up at a bar. That wasn't how the Irish were.


	3. Chapter 2

First Movement

**Incalzando**

_Regan_

_Location: McGinty's Bar_

Seventeen days until Christmas. Why did it always seem to get busier during the holidays? Men desperate to escape their families filled the premises, most of them sitting at the long, polished oak-wood bar. Some groups sat gathered around the small tables filling the floor, some playing poker, some watching the highlighs of the Patriots season playing on the big TV off on the wall. She wished they'd go home to their families, and spend their money on presents for wife and children, instead of drinking themselves into oblivion.

Regan wiped her hands on her apron, taking a quick survey of the bar itself to make sure no one needed, or wanted refills. With a soft, almost resigned sigh, she slipped down to the end of the bar, and poked her head into the only office. He was still napping, which, all told, was a good thing. He got so tired so quickly now, and he'd fought so hard to keep the bar. Doc McGinty had his feet up on the desk, and his chair leaned back in the dark of the office, his face turned slightly away from the door. Regan could watch his chest, rise and fall slowly, as he slept.

A slight buzz in her pocket reminded her of the voicemail she'd yet to reply to. She refused to cave to her father's demands to come home and leave that '_doddering old coot_' to his own devices. It had taken her far too long to find her grandfather, and she wasn't about to let him suffer for his family's lack of caring. She was easing the door shut again when the jangle of the entry bell caught her attention.

_Time for the horse-and-pony show_, she thought, smoothing her apron again. Her neck was tickled by fly-away hair that had come undone from the bun, but she didn't have enough time to redo it. The low buzz of conversation in the bar stilled as all eyes turned to the three newcomers to the premises.

The brown-skinned Hispanic stuck out like a sore thumb in this part of town, but even though he was the first inside, the other two with him immediately took up flanking positions, as if they could feel the malaise that rose with their presence. One shook the snow from his jacket with a slight shake of his shoulders; the other stomped his boots to clear the slush. Meanwhile the Hispanic crossed his arms and sauntered across to the bar like he owned the joint.

Regan immediately didn't like him. She drew a deep breath, and headed down the bar, picking up a small handtowel as she went and slinging it over her shoulder. Somewhere, she found the fake smile, the one that got her through all those nights alone, all the times in school when the kids would pick on her. It was the smile that made every lie true, and every word false. The two in the black peacoats hung back, while their Hispanic gopher did the talking.

"Hey pretty lady, you happen to know where we can find an old man with a dirty mouth around here?"

Inwardly, she winced, wishing that he hadn't opened his mouth at all. Her natural defense mechanism rose up before she could stop herself. "I'm sorry; we don't cater to that sort of clientele here. You're probably looking for Los Lobos House of Sin out on Summer Street. I hear tell they'll do anything for the right price." At her tone, a few of the regulars shuffled seats, moving further down the bar, away from the disturbance. When she glanced over, she found it odd. Instead of watching her for the next sarcastic thing to come out of her mouth, they were watching the two men in the black peacoats.

"Down, Romeo, down!" One of them came rushing forward as the Hispanic's eyes widened, and he began to puff out his chest like an overgrown rooster. The lilt of an Irish accent wasn't uncommon in these parts of town, so it didn't seem odd at all coming from him. He caught Romeo's arm and pulled him back, flashing her a charming grin.

Regan returned it by frowning, and crossing her arms, waiting for the inevitable. Four years at Boston College had given her an immunity to the types that oozed charm like sweat.

"Now, ye 'ave ta fergive our friend, here," that one started, blue eyes twinkling. "He's just a wee bit excited about seein' an old friend for the first time in years."

She studied him further, deciding not to cave to his charm. Her lips were still turned down in a scowl, and she tilted her head slightly, as if waiting to hear a polite turn of phrase. All around, the bar began to move, as men dug into wallets and pockets to produce wads of cash that got laid down on tables, and slapped to the bar. Regan couldn't believe her eyes as the first of them began to duck out the door, never once looking directly at the three.

"Cin ye do us a favor, an' just tell Doc that we're here ta see him?" It was the second brother in the peacoat who spoke up that time. Regan didn't so much as glance in his direction. He wasn't close enough to be a threat, she felt.

"And just who are _we_?" She uncrossed her arms, letting the bartowel slide from her shoulder and puddle on the counter. Her eyes flicked toward the door, as another knot of the regulars slipped out. These three were bad for business. There'd be no way she could pay off her student loans, and keep McGinty's from folding if she couldn't pack the bar every night.

"Who are we?" Romeo piped up, even as one of them made a motion for him to be silent. The second twin gave the Mexican a pull, yanking him back a little, and shaking his head. "But what do you mean she doesn't know who we are?"

The one closest to her turned on the charm again, sliding a step to his right to block the two of them from sight. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled up, showing a lifetime spent grinning and laughing. "Don't ye worry. He'll know who we are." He edged forward until he could lean on the bar, giving her his best begging-puppy look. "Please?"

Regan suddenly caved. Dammit. Men and that sad hang-dog look. She could resist charm; she could resist schmooze, but one hint of sadness, however fiegned, and she was undone. "Fuck." She swore, before turning on her heel. "You fuckers empty my bar, and demand to see my grandad, and I swear to God Almighty, if you so much as upset him, in the slightest, I will have your balls in jars on my back counter." She jabbed a finger in his surprised face, and spun on her heel. Her sneakers squeaked softly as she stalked down the bar to the office. She missed them all turning to each other, and mouthing the word _grandad_ between them.

Regan closed the door to the office slowly behind her, feeling the catch click. Doc was snoring softly as she approached. He didn't wake until she gently shook his shoulder, snorting and snuffling as he shook her off and wiped the drool from his cheek. She'd only been there a little more than a year, living with him and helping him with the bar, but he'd never seen a woman as patient with his stuttering as she was. She let him work it out of his system, as he struggled to ask her what was going on, and when the words finally came out, she pressed his cane into his hand gently.

"There's some gentlemen here to see you, _daido_. And it's not the Greeks." Regan worried. That was her job after all. She worried about him, about the bar, about their wellbeing. As Doc fumbled with his glasses, she continued. "Two Irishmen, and a Mexican."

She'd never seen his eyes light up like that. The watery-blue widened behind his thick glasses, and suddenly, he was fighting to get to his feet. Regan caught his arm, and helped him up, bewildered at his sudden excitement. Doc was half-shuffling, half-running toward the bar, and Regan followed him like a dutiful granddaughter, hoping that he wouldn't hurt himself in his haste.

"C-c-c-c-c—" Doc was so excited he couldn't get the words out of his mouth. He tried for a name, but his brain caught on the sound, and just forced it into repetition. "_Boys!_" That word he could spit out, and as soon as he was heard in the bar, the three men swarmed him.

They had all shed their jackets, and with practiced ease they all surrounded Doc and embraced him as one big group. Regan drifted from the joyful reunion, collecting tabs from the tables, as she went, tucking the cash into the pocket of her apron. She kept a wary eye on the men, to make sure they didn't maul Doc. They all talked over one another, their words jumbling together and becoming impossible to follow. There were more hugs, and Regan thought that her grandfather was crying.

"Ruh-Ruh-Regan!" She turned to find them all seated at the bar, and Doc motioning her to join them. "Be a d-dear, and pour us some - Fuck! Ass!"

The three tried hard not to giggle. The Mexican even went so far as to bite his lower lip, while the other two just covered their mouths to hide their grins. But Regan knew what he'd meant; she slid behind the bar again, and silently went about her job. Four shot glasses laid out on the bar before her.

"Take one fer yerself, lass." The charmer flashed her a wink, gesturing for her to add another.

She looked at her grandfather, for approval, and at his smile, she added a fifth shot glass. She turned from the bar to get a bottle of the finest whiskey down from the top shelf. When she turned, and began pouring shots, she felt eyes lingering on her while she worked. Glancing up once, she noticed it was the quieter of the two, watching her with intense blue eyes.

"So ye never told us ye had a granddaughter, Doc." This one's voice was smokier, deeper than his brother's.

"And I thought I knew all the regulars," she returned softly, setting down shot glasses for Romeo and Doc first.

"Connor. This is my little brother, Murphy." The charmer took over, grinning foolishly even when his brother socked him in the arm. He laughed softly, and gave his brother a shove. "We been away fer a coupla years."

"A c-c-c-couple of years?" Doc exclaimed, as she set the whiskey down for the brothers. "They said on the news you was dead!"

Regan took her own shot, leaned back against the back bar, and crossed her arms again. She watched as the Mexican clapped her grandfather on the back.

"Rumors of our demise have been greatly exaggerated!"

"Rome." Connor was the one to cut his friend off, shaking his head slightly.

"Oh, bollocks. Regan can be trusted. Can't ya?" Doc looked hopefully up at the girl, silently begging for her to agree. His head twitched a little as he resisted the tic that drove him to swear, trying to fight the need. "Ye won't say fuck all..."

She was chewing on her thumbnail, watching them all, watching her grandfather fawn over these three men. With a sigh, she dropped her hand, and rolled her eyes. "Whatever your secret it, its safe with me."

Everyone on the other side of the counter burst into a huge smile, and Murphy was the first to raise his shot glass. "Ta secrets! And fine lasses who cin keep 'em!"

The others all leaned into to clink their glasses together, holding them there until Regan leaned forward with her own. Gently tapping the rip of hers against theirs, she finally broke into a smile. "_Slainte_."

The toast was echoed around, and everyone threw back their whiskey. Regan made a bit of a face, closing her eyes against the alcohol burn.

"Ooh, bit a lightweight, are ye?" Connor mocked her expression, squinching up his eyes and giving himself a bit of a shake. Regan set her shot glass down wiht a bit more force than she'd intended, and glared at the Irishman, the smile fading from her face.

Reaching down, she placed the bottle of whiskey on the counter between them, an obvious challenge.

Connor smirked, and took it upon himself to pour another round for everyone.


	4. Chapter 3

First Movement

**Pianissimo**

_Murphy, Doc, Regan_

_Location: Above McGinty's_

"Where're we goin' now?" Connor was slurred, utterly soused. If Romeo hadn't been keeping him upright, Connor would probably be crawling. Murphy had seen it coming, and stopped drinking hours before, preparing himself to take care of his brother all night. Romeo had taken the hint, and slowed down too, and for that Murph was grateful.

His arms were so full of _girl_ that he couldn't support his brother too. And he wasn't about to let Rome touch the granddaughter of the man who'd been more their Da than their Da ever was. Doc shuffled ahead, leading them up the stairs to the rather nice apartment he kept above the bar.

"We're takin' ye t'sleep it off, Conn." Murphy grumbled, waiting for Romeo to put his brother back on the right path. Conn had tried to wander right into the wall of the hallway, but the little Mexican pulled on him, wrapping an arm around the bigger man's waist to keep him on the straight and narrow.

"Easy does it," Romeo coaxed, sounding much more sober than he felt. "That's it. Up one step. There's another." He glanced up to see Murphy watching them, and bust into a grin. "It's like teaching a kid how to take stairs!"

Connor growled a little, and shoved Romeo away. "I'm no kid!" Except his first attempt to lift his foot to a new stair left him windmilling uncomfortably as the world tilted. When Connor finally came down, he dropped his hands to the stairs before him, and simply started to crawl up them. "See!" came the triumphant call back.

Romeo looked at Murphy, but Murph just shook his head slightly. Together, they waited at the bottom of the stairs until Connor had pulled himself up to sit at Doc's feet. Romeo started up next, taking the stairs two at a time until he could reach down and pull Connor back to his feet, weaving him unsteadily into Doc's home above the bar. Murphy finally climbed the stairs himself, after adjusting the girl in his arms. She was out cold, sleeping soundly with her head pillowed on his shoulder. When she'd fallen asleep on the stool, Connor had declared himself the winner of night, and had promptly fallen on his ass.

It wasn't that Murph wasn't drunk. He was certainly buzzing at the edges, comfortably numbed to the activities going on around him. It was just when Connor got to drinking, to really binging, Murph always managed to stay in control. The roles reversed often enough, with Connor having to take care of him, but they'd lost track of who's turn it was, while surviving two years in Hoag.

Doc met him at the top of the stairs. "Her room's this a-way." Shuffling ahead, Doc led them slowly to the front room. Murphy was almost surprised that it wasn't as girly as he'd hoped. Her bed looked normal. The walls were a little bare, except for a cross hanging over the head of her bed, and a poster of the Bruins with the Stanley Cup on one wall. It had a dorm rooms efficiency of space, and all the personality of a blank slate.

Under Doc's watchful eye, Murphy laid Regan out on the bed gently, catching her head with his hand, and finding the one bobby pin that held her bun together. As her hair sprung free from its confines, he couldn't help but notice how soft it was, vanilla-scented and dark against the white of her pillow. Doc came over and tugged off her sneakers, placing them neatly at the foot of the bed. Together, they both left quietly, and traversed into the living room to check on Connor and Romeo. It hadn't even been five minutes, and Connor was already snoring softly on the couch, while Romeo was out in the easy chair.

Murphy looked at Doc, and Doc grinned. "Let's you and I go have a cuppa coffee, hm?"

With a shrug, Murph followed him into the kitchen, taking a spot at the table while Doc shuffled around and started to prepare the coffee pot. Murphy didn't expect to get any sleep, what with the only two other spots in the house now taken. He'd just have to catnap through the next day. For a few minutes of companionable silence, Murphy waited until Doc slid a mug full of the bitter brew in front of him.

"So, why'd ye never tell us ye had family?" Murphy suddenly asked, his eyes on his coffee.

Doc looked surprised, his pale blue eyes wide over the top rim of his glasses. Hastily removing his spectacles, Doc began to clean them, a sure sign he was nervous. "Well, ah... it n-n-n-never worked out."

Murphy was the quiet one, the sensitive one. He knew when to prompt and when to wait, and right now, he was waiting. He stirred sugar into his coffee while he waited for Doc to gather himself. The Tourette's never made anything easy, even the most serious of conversations with Doc would end with the brothers giggling over an outburst of _Fuck-ass! _ Eventually, the story would out, in between stutters and twitches.

"D-d-dottie left me, because I refused t'leave Boston. She... -_Fuck! Ass!_- t-t-took me son, and moved north, away from the g-gangs... away from the v-v-violence." Doc's voice saddened, and the old man scrubbed a hand through what little hair he had left. "She never told me when James m-m-m-m- got hitched. I never saw no b-b-birth announcement.. never m-m-m- saw her 'til last year."

"She came t'find ye?" Murphy raised a brow, sipping his coffee, letting the caffeine combat the alcohol buzz. Doc nodded, glancing toward the door, as if he could see through the house to the girl sleeping in her room. "Ye musta been pretty happy t'see her."

Blinking, Doc looked shocked. "Are you kiddin? I ain't never been more afraid of a person in my whole life! She filled a hole, M-m-murphy! An' all I could think, every t-time I sat down t'dinner with her, was how much you boys'd -_Fuck! Ass!-_ l-l-like her."

Murphy started chuckling, trying to keep his voice down, but the sillyness of the moment just got to him. He'd always been the one to laugh the easiest, to find amusement where there shouldn't be any, but the mere idea that Doc would want to set his granddaughter up with the two of them was far too funny to resist. Within moments Murphy was doubled over in his seat, roaring with laughter.

But Doc didn't seem to find the moment quite so funny as Murphy did, standing with a huff, and disappearing into his own bedroom. Murphy didn't stop laughing until the door shut soundly, and he realized he was alone.

Morning always came far too early for Regan's tastes. Even in school she'd always opted for the afternoon classes. But the sunlight filtering through the curtains woke her with the kind of urgency that warned her something was very wrong. She sat up too quickly in bed, and felt her stomach rise as the room spun around her. Her brain hammered against the inside of her skull, brutally reminding her of all the reasons why she didn't drink. She remembered the bar, and trying to outdrink that cocky sonofabitch, but she didn't remember getting to her room. Her whole body itched from being in the same clothes from the previous night, and she smelled like stale whiskey.

A blurry look at the alarm clock warned her that it was nearly noon. She'd have to start doing prep for the bar soon, and she had to check to make sure Doc had taken all his meds. Forcing her legs to move, she padded across the floor, and out of her bedroom. The apartment was silent. No television played in the living room to show her that her grandfather was awake. No smell of sausage sizzling on the stove to hint that he'd bothered to make breakfast.

Regan's first stop was the bathroom, as she started to go through what had become her daily routine. She checked Doc's pill organizer, trailing her finger down the line labeled for Wednesday. All the chambers were still full. Swearing softly, she snapped the medicine cabinet open and fished out some aspirin. After downing a few herself, she palmed the rest of the bottle, and ventured out into the rest of the house. The living room still snored on, both Connor and the spic sprawled out on their respective surfaces. Bemused, Regan stacked a few little piles of the white miracle pills on the coffee table, and left without disturbing the two.

She stopped in the kitchen door and tried to figure out what she was seeing. A dark lump was hunched at the table. The fog in her brain finally connected that there had only been two of the three crashed out in the living room. So this had to be.. what was his name? The quiet one. Murphy. He hadn't even taken off his peacoat, using his arms as a pillow. She circled slowly around the table, pausing only to slip the aspirin bottle into his lax fingers.

She paused for a second, touching the cuff of his coat before turning away. With a soft sigh, she wondered just what her grandad was getting her into.


	5. Chapter 4

First Movement

**Col Pugno**

_All Cast_

_Location: Around Boston_

Romeo called it the Hideout. The boys just thought of it as home. The hidden speakeasy room had always felt more like home than even their shitty little tenement apartment had. The pool table always doubled as everything for them, and the cots were certainly more comfortable than sleeping in an easy chair. They made sure to add a third, all at the farthest side of the room, away from the door, but near the fire escape. The day before had been a day of laughter and reunions, but already the Saints of South Boston were getting ready to get back to business. The angelic delivery of aspirin into their hungover hands the morning before had been a sign. This was the right place. This was the right time.

"Ye an' yuir feckin' rope." Murphy muttered, giving the pile of black cordage a shove off his side of the table.

Connor just snickered, making an agreeable sound after. "Me an' me rope. While ye... overcompensate." Connor's eyes flicked to the seven-inch Bowie knife resting by Murphy's left hand. Possessively, Murphy covered it with his palm, glaring at his brother, just daring him to make another comment like that. Connor didn't have to. He just grinned smugly, snapping the slide back onto his pistol.

It wasn't that they didn't trust their arms dealer, but neither brother believed that a gun really cooperated with it's owner until it had been cleaned, checked and rechecked by it. This was step one of their rebirth, weapons, clothing, gear. So much of their things Doc had kept hidden in this very room, right under the nose of the people looking for them, for so long. Step two was in Romeo's hands: the Mexican was heading over to his uncle's restaurant to get the lay of the land.

Muffled by the walls and floor were the sounds of a busy bar. Both MacManus brothers wanted to be down there, carousing and joking with the locals, getting the feel of things. But it was safer for everyone if they did the one thing that the detectives had asked of them. Lay low, at least for a little while. Connor looked up to notice that Murphy had stopped halfway through assembling one of the .45s.

Murphy wore a thoughtful expression, eyes cast toward one of the vents in the floor that carried most of the sound to them. Connor followed his gaze, pushing his thoughts and worries to the side for a moment to listen. Those are the people, he realized, that they were doing all of this for. The lads and lassies who had abandoned the bar when the first sign of trouble had shown up. The regular men and women who wouldn't, or couldn't, defend themselves. Connor looked up to find that Murphy had lifted his eyes. Nodding slightly, Connor agreed. Their divine duty was more important than ever.

Outside, the fire escape rattled, and Romeo appeared in the window, knocking lightly. Connor was the one to scramble over and slide it open, letting the Mexican and a little bit of snow into the old speakeasy. Romeo looked comically small in his oversized, puffy jacket. Already the Mexican had a dark shadow of stubble over his cheeks, and his head shaved to skin except for a two-inch wide streak over his crown. He pressed a paper bag into Connor's hands and started to shuck out of the jacket, talking already.

"Oh, man, you ain't never gonna believe this man... after you done Concezio Yakavetta, and the Roman, the whole Italian presence in Bean-Town just crumpled! Exploded from the inside out! _Booom!_" Romeo made a grand motion of throwing his hands into the air and scattering all the pieces around the floor.

Connor was curiously peeling open the paper bag, as Murphy finished assembling his last gun. Bemused, Connor pulled out three Silver Pesos-wrapped burritos out of it. Flashing Murphy a grin, he tossed one of the burritos, pleased when Murph snagged it out of midair without a problem

"So what happens when something blows up?" Romeo was still going. The man could be like the Energizer rabbit when he got excited. "All the pieces come scattering down. Some land over there, some over there... -Why, thank you!- What I'm getting at, my brothers from another mother-"

Murphy shot a pained look at his brother, to which Connor just shrugged. Romeo started unwrapping the burrito that had been handed to him, gesturing with the food while he forged on ahead.

"-is that there are three forces converging on Boston, trying to eat up the space vacated by our yakkity-yaks. Three. Whole. Mafioso. Families."

"All Italians?" Murphy asked, before taking a bit of the burrito. His brows rose in surprise at the goodness of the neatly wrapped package. "Hey, this is pretty good! Ye should try it!" He gestured for Connor to hurry up and bite into it.

"No! That's just it!" Romeo slid into a seat beside Murphy, pointing a finger at the darker-haired of the twins. "The Sicilians have apparently named this city a no-fly zone. No Italian operations are allowed in Boston any more! You guys really scared the metric shit outta them!"

"Then, if not Italians.. who?" Connor was already thinking. They knew how the Italians worked. Having Rocco as a friend for so long had given them insight into their actions and motivations. They wouldn't have that luxury with any of the other groups.

"The Chinese are making a run on the north side... The Turkish are working in through the port... and the Greek are running out of Dorchester Heights!" Romeo seemed so pleased with himself, reporting all these bits of information. He didn't care that he was a glorified gopher-boy. The brothers' trusted him, and needed him more often than not.

Murphy was already grinning, his eyes sparkling at the thought of ridding so much evil from the world of men. Connor, however, was thinking. "You got names for the bosses?"

Romeo laughed, and dug into his pocket, producing a list. It only had three names on it, but he handed it to Connor, who carefully looked it over, before passing it to his brother. Murphy's smile slowly faded as he looked over the list, and then he started nodding. This is the direction. This was the sign. Reaching out, Murphy clapped Romeo on the shoulder, giving him a squeeze of pride.

"Good job, man... good job..." Murphy mused, folding the paper up and tucking it into his pocket.

"I think this good news deserves a drink!" Connor declared, crossing over to the main door. Yanking it open, he startled himself and stepped back.

Standing there with her hand poised to knock was Regan. She was wearing her bartending gear again, the apron folded in half and tied around her waist, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. Her eyes were wide as she stared at Connor's chest, her fist inches from knocking on it. She stepped back just as quickly as he did, except he grinned, while she flushed bright red.

"There... there's a couple of cops here to see you two," she got out. "At least, I assumed it was you, since they wouldn't tell me exactly."

Connor laughed, taking Regan by the shoulders, and moving her slightly out of the doorway. "Yuir a good lass, ye know, Rayg?" She made a little face at the nickname but let him slide by her. Murphy followed hot on his heels, practically walking on air. The smile he flashed Regan make her turn red right to the roots of her hair. Romeo pushed out afterwards, pulling the door shut behind him.

Regan followed them down into the bar once more. Doc was behind bar this early in the evening, so Regan got to mingle with the crowd, and occasional pitch in with her grandfather. It gave her the best vantage point to observe that strange phenomenon again. As soon as the two Irishmen and their Mexican third sauntered into the bar proper, the rest of the bar stilled uneasily. A few of the lingerers at the back of the bar gathered up their beer and vacated to a few empty tables on the floor, giving the boys the perfect spot to settle down.

The two cops moved from the middle bar to where the boys were, and there were embraces passed around. Regan glanced at Doc for some kind of explanation, but only received a little wave of his hand, in hopes that she would dismiss her questions. She didn't like it in the least, but chose not to press the situation until later.

She almost forgot about the oddness going on at the end of the bar, because things fell into their usual rhythm. She laughed and joked with the patrons. So many of them worked the docks, while others worked in a near-by meat-packing facility, and still others were part-time truckers home for the holidays. She let a few of the younger ones flirt with her as the brought them their beers, but an occasional glance up at the bar found her the subject of an intense blue-eyed stare. It was one or the other of them, all the time, either Connor or Murphy watching her as she worked the crowd.

It carried on like that for hours, it seemed. Connor, Murphy and Romeo lost in deep discussion with the two plains-clothes detectives. Until something turned sour.

The slam of a fist onto the bar top sounded like a gunshot in the confines of the establishment. Reflexively, most of the patrons ducked, even Regan flinched, freezing in place and taking a quick look around for the threat.

Duffy had turned slightly to hide Dolly from the view of the patrons. Dolly's fist ached from slamming it into the bar, and while his partner was red-faced from the embarrassment, Dolly couldn't help himself.

"You haven't even been out for two days and you want to spark off a gangwar!?" Dolly barely managed to keep his voice down. "What part of laying low isn't this?"

"But we 'ave laid low," Murphy protested softly, leaning forward. "We've stayed outta sight, 'cept for Rome. He gets our info."

"Two days isn't laying low!" Dolly's voice cracked with the strain of keeping it quiet. In the bar, the normal chatter began to resume. "A year is laying low!"

"Why don't you just let them all kill themselves out over the turf war? Why get involved?" Duffy patted his partner on the back, trying to calm him down.

"B'cause." Connor said simply. "In th' movies, when there's more than one bad guy, they always team up. An' we dinnae wanna deal with teamed up bad guys, do we, Murph?"

In answer, Murphy shook his head slightly. His eyes had wandered again, drifting over to where Regan was cleaning off a table. When she leaned over, he followed the curve of her leg up from the floor. Connor smacked him in the shoulder, jolting him back to the conversation at hand.

"We're startin' t'morrow." Connor stated, giving his brother a stern look. "Ye two best be ready..."

Dolly groaned softly. Duffy quaffed a full shot of whiskey before sighing softly. Then he smacked his partner in the shoulder. "C'mon, Dolly. We got work to do."


	6. Chapter 5

Second Movement

**Cuperto Cuivre**

_Full Cast_

_Multiple Locations_

Dolly was about to cry. He had his hands raked through his hair, interlaced behind his head. The effect pulled his face into tight lines, and showed the stress of the years weighing on him. Duffy was trying not to freak out himself. The boys needed to lay low. This wasn't laying low. Initial report showed twelve bodies, all ritually laid out, arms crossed upon their chests, and pennies resting on their eyes. The heroin, the cocaine, had been untouched, both shipments still sitting in their inconspicuous boxes of imported shoes and boots. This was a nightmare. They'd have to start dealing with the FBI all over again, and who knew what they'd get this time. Smecker was dead. Bloom was in hiding. Neither of them had a good feeling about this.

The rest of the precinct hovered around, milling carefully among the bodies while the forensic team swabbed, and photographed and bagged evidence. They kept glancing nervously at Dolly and Duffy, certain that the two detectives knew something they didn't. One of the ventured closer, sidling up towards Duffy with a curious air.

"Sooo..." the uniform drew out the word long and careful. "This is a copycat, right? Some guy who thinks that because their heroes are dead that we won't catch on?"

It was Dolly that answered, spinning around to face the cop. "Of course it was copycats! It had to be! The boys are gone! Dead! We went to the funeral!"

Duffy smacked his partner in the chest with the back of his hand. Of course they'd gone to the funeral, not as cops, but as friends. Dolly hadn't been so inconsolable since Greenly's funeral years before. Rubbing his forehead, Duffy tried to calm everyone down.

"We don't have enough evidence yet, to prove this wasn't some rival gang strike, made to look like the Saints." Duffy had to be careful. He knew one of his guys liked to leak things to the press. After a moment, he raised his voice. "Listen up! If a single word of this reaches press ears, heads will roll! Every last one of you will be scrubbing the frickin' locker room with toothbrushes!"

A soft rumble of grumbling rose up from the crime scene, but Duffy was pretty sure he got his point across. The uniform went back to supervising, frowning at Duffy as he went. Dolly immediately seized the opportunity to talk to his partner alone.

"We don't need this shit so close to Christmas! What do they think they're doing?"

Duffy glanced around the carnage. "Taking out the bad guys," he sighed softly. "Look, see there.. that's how they got in..."

_Connor couldn't get over the fact that the Chinese drove American-made cars. Romeo was still under the dashboard of the Cadillac, pulling wires out of the ignition box and rubbing them together carefully. Murphy paced carefully beside him, shoulders hunched inside his jacket against the cold December air. As soon as the Caddy purred to life, Connor helped Rome out of the car by grabbing the back of his jacket and hauling him up to his feet._

_Romeo was all smiles. "See. Just like I toldja, piece of cake!"_

"_Perfect. Fuckin' perfect!" Murphy hopped once, clapping his gloved hands together. "Let's wreck it!"_

_Connor laughed at his brother's enthusiasm. It'd been a long time since he'd gotten to be around that boyish glee, and it made him feel wonderfully whole again. "Remember wot I said." Connor pointed a finger first at Murphy, then at Romeo. "Use the car as cover. These beasts're made outta nuthin' but steel, and good ole American know-how."_

_Murphy grinning, and dropped into the back passenger seat. Romeo slid in behind the wheel, and Connor slid over the rumbling hood to let himself into the passenger seat. Revving the engine a few times, Romeo made the throaty boat of a car jostle on it's shocks, before throwing it into gear, and spinning rubber on the icy parking lot. Bracing themselves, the lot of them gave a rebel yell, and crashed the Cadillac through the outer wall of the warehouse._

Duffy and Dolly stood before the Cadillac, as one of the specialists knelt down and swabbed the various bullet holes and dents in the exterior. Even Dolly had to admit, that the car flair certainly felt like the boys. He just couldn't believe that fourteen days before the most holiest of Holy Days, the Saints of South Boston would start a new killing spree.

"And then what?" Dolly asked, pacing around to the trunk of the car. "They shot 'em up?"

Duffy nodded. "They shot the whole place up."

_Even before the car had squealed to a complete halt, the MacManus boys had guns drawn and were firing. As soon as Romeo killed the cars engine, his own .45s were drawn, arms extended out the window and taking aim at the worker's moving pallets full of shoes and boots and handbags. The brothers were undeniably better shots then him. The first few Chinese workers fell without a shot fired in return, but as quickly as they realized what was going on, the drug runners were drawing concealed pistols from inside jackets, and rifles hidden away on pallet jacks._

_Sparks flew when bullets struck the hood of the Caddy. The brothers opened their doors, using the steel as cover when they shifted position. Romeo could hear the zing of bullets ricocheting off metal, pinging into concrete, and cracking the windshield. Systematically, the brothers eliminated the low-end workers, the loaders and movers. It was their foreman they were most interested in, a man that Romeo caught a glimpse of slipping away._

"_There he is!"_

_As one entity, both brothers broke from cover, giving Romeo enough time to kick open his own door and chase after them._

"What about this poor sap?" It was one of the uniforms, overhearing Duffy's theory of the action itself. Dolly and Duffy came up, flanking the body in question. He was the only one done right, the only one with the brother's signature flair, the angled bullet paths that Smecker had first pointed out to them. Dolly felt his throat go dry.

"This was the target. He have anything on him, officer McCreedy?" Duffy asked, taking a moment to look at the nameplate just beneath the badge.

"Nothing. He's been rolled pretty thoroughly." McCreedy shrugged slightly, gesturing with a pen. "His knuckles are all busted up. He put up a good fight."

_Connor was just a touch faster than Murphy, tackling the foreman with a flying spear that would have done any rugby coach proud. As the two of them went down in a heap, the foreman started fighting back. Punching and rolling, kicking and shoving, the two tumbled a good distance before coming to a stop up against a wrapped pallet of boxes. For a split second, Connor was on top of the situation, raining down fists, but just as quickly the tide turned, as the foreman scissored his legs up, getting one around Connor's chest, to bear him backwards._

_Murphy let out a bellow of rage as his brother went over backward, and dropped his pistols, throwing himself into the fray. Two against one should have been good odds for the brothers. They knew how to fight, they knew how to battle. They each knew how to take care of themselves, and each other. But they hadn't been banking on facing a real fighter. They hadn't made the connection of the Chinese to all those bash-em-up kung fu movies._

_Romeo's pistol thwipped twice as he shot a drug runner that was attempting to escape. He would have attempted to shoot the foreman, but the brothers were tussling far to close with him. "The guy's Jackie fuckin' Chan!" Romeo shouted as a warning._

"_No shit!" Both brothers retorted in unison, before both getting hit with a palm to the chin at the same time. The fight wasn't going well until Murphy got in a lucky kick to the foreman's kneecap, busting his leg with a sickening snap. Doubling over on the ground, the foreman cried in pain. Romeo handed Murphy his guns back, while Connor wiped blood from his mouth._

"_Where do we find yuir boss? Tell us!" Connor loomed, trying to be intimidating, waving his own pistol in the Chink's face._

_The foreman spat something in Chinese, baring bloody teeth, and gnashing at Connor's face. Murphy kicked him in the back of the ribs, causing the man to writhe in agony._

"_I suggest ye tell us, er it's gonna get mighty uncomfortable for ye." Murphy cooed gently into his ear, poking the back of his head with the pistol._

"They must have gotten whatever information they were looking for." Duffy mused.

"Because they left everything else. There's thirty thousand dollars worth of product in here." Dolly sighed. "You'd think someone would take it for a quick buck."

"_And Shepherds we shall be, for Thee my Lord, for Thee."_

Pulling Dolly aside, Duffy shook his head. "Not them. They left it for us. To take into evidence."

"_Power hath descended forth from Thy hand, our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands."_

"This is going to get very bad, isn't it?" Dolly's hands were shaking so bad that he could hardly light his cigarette.

"_And we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be."_

Duffy sighed softly. "Yeah. Yeah, man, it is."

"_In Nomine Patris, et Filii -" The cocking of the two pistols was deafening in the dead silence. "Et Spiritus Sancti."_

* * *

><p>They tried to sneak in through the bar. The MacManus twins sent Romeo in first, to chat up both Doc, and Regan, to distract them from the state they were in. Huddled in their peacoats, they tried to ignore the curious glances they got from the few other patrons in the bar. Familiar faces, every one of them, hard working men that they knew from the area, who knew just who they were. Romeo thought he was doing a good job keeping Regan distracted, but she was far to aware of her surroundings. As Doc laughed at some joke, Regan glanced toward the two slinking toward the back room.<p>

At just the wrong second, Murphy glanced back to see how Romeo was handling the two of them. His eyes connected with Regan's and he just had enough time to see the surprise register on her face, before Connor gave him an elbow in the ribs.

"Just where do you two think you're going?" Regan's voice rang out in the quiet bar. Romeo winced as she threw the bartowel directly in his face, recognizing just what was happening. Connor and Murphy paused at the rear door, the one that led to the stockroom, and the hidden speakeasy, allowing Regan to catch up to them. "What the hell happened? Did you two lose a fight with a rock?"

She ducked out from behind the bar, wedging her way in between them. Connor tried to keep his head down, but she bobbed down and peered up. When Regan sucked her breath in between her teeth, his eyes flicked up. She was more concerned than angry, and it showed as her brow furrowed. She switched to Murphy quickly, actually reaching out to tuck her fingers beneath his chin, turning his face toward her.

"Holy hell..." She muttered. Murph's eye was swollen shut, already a dark and angry purple. She huffed softly, and took a handful of each of their jackets. "C'mon, you two miscreants. Let's get you cleaned up."

The brothers traded a glance behind her back, as she pushed her way through the door, practically dragging them along with her. Connor, glancing back over his shoulder, saw Romeo starting to get up from his bar stool. On impulse, he waved the Mexican off, grinning, and immediately regretting it as his split lip opened back up.


	7. Chapter 6

Second Movement

**Cuperto Con Bravura**

_Introducing: Allen Vandercamp_

_Locations: MBTA Commuter_

_Maintenance Yard & McGinty's Bar_

"How are you so sure this is simply the work of copycat killers?" His accent placed him from California, but the presence of a Flying Elvis Patriots logo as his tie-tack hinted at New England roots. Either that, Duffy figured, or he was trying to curry favor with the locals. The FBI agent was young, handsome and charismatic. He had a friendly smile that had instantly won over more than half the uniforms. But Duffy felt threatened, cornered inside his own report, damned by his own words. Especially now, when less than full day had passed since the scene at the warehouse, and now, they were faced with a second mass murder.

"The Saints of South Boston are dead." Duffy had to be careful not to sound too familiar with the boys, or to hint on that he was lying through his teeth. "They were killed in a riot, little over two weeks ago, out in Hoag."

Allen Vandercamp held up a latex-gloved hand, silencing Duffy mid-explanation. Half-panicked, the detective automatically looked to his left, where Dolly should have been standing. But Dolly was absent; instead of facing the government man with his partner, Dolly was half-way across the enclosure trying to figure out what to do with the dogs.

"So," Vandercamp mused. "You're telling me, that in less than two days, two murderous shooting sprees happen in your fair city, each bearing the signature of your fabled Saints, and you're not the least bit curious?" Vandercamp laughed softly, straightening from the corpse he'd been kneeling over. The man's suit remained immaculate, and perfectly pressed, no matter how many times he leaned down. Duffy took half a step back, sputtering as he tried to stall. "It wouldn't be the first time someone faked their death to get out of prison. First time it worked.. if it worked.. but not the first time it was tried."

Vandercamp started to move away, expecting Duffy to trail along. There were only nine bodies this time, all Greeks. The Boston cops had known them all as soon as they laid eyes on them. Each one was a suspected bookie, a few had even been caught fencing illegal bets at the Boston Garden boxing matches. It hadn't surprised either of them to find the illegal dogfighting racket right under their noses.

"Look, Special Ag-"

"Allen, please.. just Allen."

Duffy hated that smile; he hated the condescending tone. This kid was young enough to be his son, and yet, here he was bossing them around, making them jump through hoops. For once, Duffy was glad Greenly wasn't around to see this. Their beanpole partner would have surely flipped a lid. The worst part was that Vandercamp kept walking, and just simply expected Duffy to keep up.

"With all due respect, I prefer to keep it professional, _Agent._" Duffy could feel the sneer on his face. He could hear Bloom's sassy voice in his head, reminding him that everyone knows that phrase is always followed by a disrespectful tone. "The Saints were never this sloppy. I mean, seriously, they leave two freakin' witnesses!"

Vandercamp stopped short, and spun on his perfectly polished heel. "Excuse me?" Duffy raised his brows and nodded to where Dolly was directing Animal Control in the removal of the two pitbulls from their cages. "You can't mean the dogs."

"Yes, the dogs!" Duffy was trying not to grin. Maybe he could lead the guy on a wild goose chase, maybe he would be able to misdirect him. Duffy knew full well the boys had meant to leave the dogs untouched. Those animals were only victims of their circumstances, after all.

Vandercamp sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he slowly began to shake his head, rattling loose all the silly ideas. Across the pit, Duffy and Dolly made eye-contact, and Dolly began to shuffle over toward them.

"Look, we all know that the Greeks and the Chinese have never seen eye-to-eye." Dolly supplied as he got closer. "This really could just be a retaliatory strike, you know?"

"Yeah," Duffy latched onto the idea. "You killed my guys, I kill yours..."

"So why make it look like the Saints?" Vandercamp interjected, for the first time, seemingly interested in their theory.

"Because the Saints are ghosts. The boogeyman for mobsters. What better way to scare the pants off the competition?" Dolly had it figured out. South Boston had been a warzone since the boys went in the slammer. Every underboss who thought he was something had attempted to take the Yakavetta throne. "It was probably one of the smaller outfits, rolled each bookie for cash."

"They've all been robbed?" Vandercamp again, putting his fists on his hips and slowly turning in a circle to survey the bodies.

"Every last one of them." Dolly acknowledged. When Vandercamp's back was turned, he flashed a grin and a wink at Duffy. A few moments of silence followed, as Vandercamp wandered a little away from the two detectives. As soon as he was out of earshot, Dolly began to dissolve. "What are they doing to us?!"

Duffy grabbed Dolly's shoulders before the other detective could drop to his knees, roughly shaking sense into his partner. "They know exactly what they're doing. You just need to get a grip. Trust them."

Dolly stared wide-eyed at how calm his partner could be when the whole world wanted to crash down around them. "It's two weeks until Christmas! What do we tell the press?"

"Mob war, plain and simple. And we're doing our best to figure out the responsible parties." Duffy shrugged slightly, glancing toward Vandercamp once more. "What we gotta do it keep Snuffles Vandercamp there from getting on the boys scent." That got Dolly to chuckle, and feeling like the worst of his breakdown was over, Duffy edged him aside. Calling out: "So what do you think, Agent?"

"I think there are three very rich hitmen out there." Vandercamp peeled off his gloves, and deposited them in a trashbin. "And this isn't over."

* * *

><p>"I wish we coulda taken the dogs," Romeo sighed, reaching for the whiskey. The pool table had once again been converted into a regular one, as Connor counted out the cash from the bookies.<p>

"Are ye kiddin'?" Murphy shook his head. "They woulda eaten us alive!"

"I didn't figure you to be scared of dogs, Murph!" Romeo was grinning from ear to ear, just kidding about the dogs thing. But Murphy scowled for a split second. It was hard to tell what his eyes were doing, since one was still swollen and blackened from the day before.

"I'm nae scared o' nuthin' and ye know it!" Murphy half stood, jabbing a finger at Romeo's face.

To his credit, Romeo backed off instantly, raising his hands, palms empty in a gesture of peace, as he started to apologize, Connor threw down a stack of bills and sighed in exasperation.

"Would th' two a' ye stop? Ye made me lose count!"

Murphy looked at his brother, and then at Romeo, and then at the bottle of whiskey. "I'm gettin' us a refill." He muttered, before heading for the door. Connor was staring at his brother as he vanished behind the door, and just before Murphy shut it behind him, he could hear Connor chuckle.

They'd gotten back early this time, climbed up to the speakeasy through the fire-escape instead of disturbing Regan or Doc. Murphy shouldered his way down the hall, toward the stockroom. Doc had never worried about them borrowing a bottle here or there, since they'd always paid him back for it. Murphy thought nothing of the idea of nipping in, and taking a top-shelf whiskey for their consumption. He grumbled to himself about Romeo as he stalked down the hall.

It wasn't that he didn't like dogs, it was that dogs generally didn't like him. He'd seen too many school chums bit by dogs back home in Ireland that he knew better than to get anywhere near them. The very idea that Romeo had wanted to bring back two trained attack pitbulls was beyond his capacity to understand. The mere sight of them snarling and frothing in their cages had sent Murphy scrambling in the other direction.

He bashed the door to the stockroom open none too gently, far too intent on his mental tirade to notice that the door hit resistance on its way open. It was the helpless yelp that registered with him, followed by a crash of glass hitting the floor. Murphy didn't give himself time to think, that was the key to quick reactions. Instead, he lunged forward, his arms out, and with a grunt, caught the falling form before it could hit the floor, landing hard on his knees.

As soon as the world was back to rolling at proper speed, he had enough time to really register what had happened. He'd knocked over the stool that Regan had been standing on. He'd knocked over Regan, which meant that the weight in his arms was... Regan.

"You can put me down now, Murph... I'm okay." She was patting his arm, waiting for him to release her. She didn't seem the least bit upset, more surprised than anything else.

Murphy caught a whiff of that vanilla that clung to her skin, and felt his face growing warm. Instead of picking her up to her feet, he lowered her gently the rest of the way to the floor, helping her sit up, as he knelt beside her. His knees stung, but that paled in comparison to the heat in his face, as he mumbled an apology.

"No harm, no foul," Regan half-laughed, acutely aware of his embarrassment. "It was just vodka, no big loss."

Murphy glanced to the shelf in alarm, but only saw the contents of one bottle shattered on the floor. He would have given anything to have Connor's quick wit right at that moment, to make some kind of funny comment that would dispel the tension. But all he could think about was how damned good she smelled. And then, her cool fingers touched his face.

He froze, afraid to move under her touch, as her fingers gently traced the outline of the swollen, bruised mouse just beneath his eye. Her fingers were so light they almost tickled, but through force of will, Murphy kept himself still and calm, at least on the outside. Inside, his heart was hammering hard against his chest, and his pants just seemed to be getting more and more uncomfortable with each passing second.

"We should really put more ice on this," she whispered, as if afraid to break the silence.

In answer to her voice, Murphy turned his face toward her, and found himself within inches of hers. His mouth went dry even as he started to form an answer, words dying unspoken as he got lost in just how dark green her eyes were. Her fingers trailed down his cheek to his jawline.

"MURPHY!" Connor flung the door open. "Wot th' 'ell man, we're dyin' a- ooooh!"

Connor had busted in, and Regan had immediately retreated, snatching her hand back as if Murphy were a live grenade. Connor giggled in the doorway, bouncing on his toes, as Regan got herself to her feet.

"Oh, ye cad!" Connor smirked, punching his brother in the arm as Murphy got to his feet. "In th' supply closet e'en! OH! Oh, wait, I'm interruptin' aren't I? I'll just lea-"

Regan shoved a bottle of whiskey into his chest, pushing him just off-balance enough to get herself out the door. Connor caught the bottle before it fell as she whisked out the door, and down the hallway. He blinked at Murphy as her footsteps ran up the stairs to the apartment above.

"Wot? Were ye nae that good?" Connor tried to lighten the mood, but Murphy snapped, giving his brother a shove against the doorjamb and a muttered _Fuck you_. Bewildered for a moment, Connor looked at the whiskey in his fist, and his brother's retreating form down the hall, before he took off after his other half, calling his name.


	8. Chapter 7

Second Movement

**Cuperto Irato**

_All Cast  
><em>

_Location: The Fatima Iskander, shipping vessel_

Connor's obsession with rope had come in handy for once. It had gotten them onto the ship, stacked high with containers on the surface, and countless other goods in the bowels of it. The _Fatima Iskender_ was one of the largest merchant vessels coming from the Mediterranean. It was supposed to carry textile goods, and furniture, but one of Romeo's uncle's informants believed that there was something far less nice going on when the ship was in dock. Local prostitutes were going missing, sometimes showing up three or four days later, disoriented and bruised and battered. Uncle Cesar believed that the Turkish had something to do with it.

The three of them had agreed to go back to masks for this one, the knit ski masks helping out not only against the bitterly cold breeze off the harbor, but also for leaving them anonymous. So long as no one used names. The ship seemed quiet, at least on the surface. The depths of night meant even the docks shut down, and that, was probably why Connor could hear muffled noise inside one of the shipping crates.

They'd been on this sort of ship enough to know that the containers only locked from the outside. So when he motioned the other two to join him, and unholstered the beautiful silenced .45, he knew there was a line he was about to cross. Even the suppressed pistol sounded like a shotgun in the silence, and the clang of the lock breaking, clattering to the deck sent Murphy into a crouch, spinning with both pistols drawn to intercept any that came to investigate.

Connor pulled the doors open slowly, the whimpering, crying sound getting louder as light spilled into the container.

"Sweet Mother of Jaysus.." Connor breathed, as he began to make out the details. The joking, genial smile faded from his face, as he motioned Romeo to get inside. "Cut 'er down. Rome... Rome?"

The girl was trussed up, hanging suspended over a bucket of offal that made the container reek like sewage. Romeo had his hands over his mouth, gaping at the naked woman. There was nothing comfortable about the way she was hanging, her wrists extended high over her head, her back twisted in an exaggerated S-shape, that thrust her breasts to the front, and her ass to the back. At three different places in the frame holding her up were bolted small, hand-held camcorders, each with the blinking red record light running.

Connor could feel that white hot seed of rage starting to take shape in his stomach. It only got worse when the girl found her voice and began to beg to be released. Connor felt Murphy turn at his shoulder, looking toward the source of the noise, toward the girl. In unison, something snapped inside each of them. They swore as one, and turned away from the scene.

"Take care o' her." Connor ordered. "An' check tae be sure there're no others."

"Where are you two going?" Romeo finally found his voice, but it broke and cracked.

Neither brother answered him, but they simply stalked away toward the hatch that would lead them below decks.

* * *

><p>"This wasn't linked to the other two." Vandercamp was positive of that. The entire ship was dead, every last one of them. But there was no ritual to it, no hands-crossed, penny-bearing ritual. They'd simply been slaughtered with a singularity of mind and purpose. Most of them were executed in their bunks, shot while they were sleeping with no hope of fighting back.<p>

"There's more back here." Duffy led the FBI agent through the corridors down to the main hold. "You may want to brace yourself."

Instead of doing as he was warned, Vandercamp simply pushed the bulkhead open, and almost retched right there. This part of the hold had been converted into a small studio. Four beds were pushed up against one wall, spaced evenly, and strewn around with cameras. A rolling cart held instruments of pain and torture. The opposite wall had a bathtub full of urine, in which a man had been drowned. There was evidence of a firefight, blood splattered on the sheets, on the floor, and dribbled down the tub.

"Witnesses?" Vandercamp barely managed to gag.

"One. A prostitute by the name of Shotgun Molly. Her boyfriend, read: _pimp_, reported her missing almost six weeks ago." Dolly supplied, pointing Vandercamp to the woman wrapped in a blanket as far away from the beds and paraphernalia as she could get. "She claims she was kidnapped, brought here, and raped."

"Sir?" A uniform ran up, actually grabbing Dolly's arm to catch his attention. "We found four more girls on deck, said they'd been kidnapped."

"This was revenge, pure and simple. Nothing but angry, pissed off, faceless rage." Vandercamp moved to follow the uniform. "What'd the girl say about her rescuer?"

"Rescuers." Duffy dragged the plural out to be sure it was heard. "They wore masks, never said a word."

"And the girls upstairs?"

The officer shook his head. "A single man, local, let them go. No names though."

As soon as they came out on deck, Vandercamp began to pace. "I want to know who owns this ship, and I want to know the names of all the girls, all the deceased, and I want answers! Yesterday!"

Duffy scratched his beard. It was hard to be intimidated by someone almost twenty years his junior. A kid fresh out of Quantico, trying to make a name for himself with a big case. Duffy nodded though, backing off as Vandercamp began to direct more bodies and issues more orders. He and Dolly slinked off, skin crawling from the interiors of the containers that were being emptied on deck. Once out of earshot, he muttered to Dolly: "These boys are aiming to put us out of business."

"Not that I'd mind an early retirement," Dolly cracked a grin, causing Duffy to laugh.

* * *

><p>Regan woke up from a dead sleep, as easily as opening her eyes. Just like that, one moment dreaming of warm sandy beaches far away from Boston, and the next wide awake, listening to the silence breathe around her. She couldn't fathom what had woken her so abruptly. She didn't remember any negativity from her dream; her face was dry, so she could rule out crying in her sleep. There as no knocking, no voice at her door. And yet, she had this undeniable feeling that she was needed somewhere. Flining the covers off, she threw her legs over the side of the bed, only pausing long enough to look toward the Heavens and cross herself.<p>

The floor was cold as she padded across to her door in bare feet. Her oversized nightshirt hung down past her mid-thigh, and she was forced to keep one hand in her hair, to hold the curls back from obscuring her vision. She meandered into the kitchen, and then to her grandfather's door. Beyond the heavy wood, she could hear him muttering and snoring softly. The living room was unoccupied, since the boys had reclaimed their space downstairs.

As if thinking of them summoned it, something loud thumped from below. And for a second, she thought she could hear muffled screams. Regan practically ran down the stairs, fumbling for a few moments with the lock leading to the ground floor. She flung the door open and pulled up cold: there in the center of the hallway, shining dark and wet, was a pool of blood, no bigger than a silver dollar.

"Oh, Lord, please..." The prayer was out of her mouth before she could stop it. The speakeasy room's door was open slightly, and she didn't even bother knocking, forcing her way through.

Murphy looked up stricken, and panicked. Romeo swore, but didn't dare release Connor. Bloody towels lay strewn on the floor, and Murph's hands were slick and red. Connor was gagged, spread eagle on the pool table, while Romeo tried to keep his shoulders immobile, and Murphy bore down on his left arm.

"Go!" Murphy barked the single word at her, causing Connor to lift his head. Connor's eyes grew wide and he began to shake, kicking with his feet.

_They should be at the hospital_, a small rational corner of Regan's mind told her, even as she started crossing toward the pool table. Her fingers touched the white case of the first-aid kit from the bar. Murphy tried to intercept her, reaching out with bloody hands, and then stopping himself. She could tell he was speaking, but she couldn't hear his words. She clasped one of his hands with hers, and gently took the forceps from him.

"Hold him down," she heard herself say, softly, gently. Murphy switched places with her, bracing himself against Connor's strength.

Regan gently ran her hand through his mussed hair, trying to be calm, trying to soothe him. Connor's blue eyes were wild with pain and fear. She placed her fingers on either side of the hole in his shoulder, watching blood well up as she gently probed the wound.

"I don't want to know," she kept talking, her voice sounding so much more even than she felt. "I don't need to know. And you won't tell me anything." She slid the tips of the forceps into the hole, causing Connor to cry out against the gag, and try to writhe beneath the two men holding him down. Murphy was crying, tears streaming down his face as his brother tried to twist in agony. Regan's eyes here half-closed in concentration, until she felt the shape of the soft lead still embedded in Connor's shoulder.

In one smooth motion, she removed the slug, set it aside, and was already applying pressure to the hole. Her throat was tight with threatening tears of her own, and she didn't trust herself to speak any further. Murphy released his grip on his brother, and went around to his head, bending over and laying forehead to forehead, while Regan still worked silently. Romeo kept handing her things he thought she would need, gauze, and tape and the like.

Only when Connor was bandaged up, did she straighten up from his shoulder, and unthinking, she wiped her fingers across her cheek, smearing blood. As soon as she'd realized what she'd done, she burst into tears, sitting down suddenly, and abruptly on the floor.


	9. Chapter 8

Intermission

**Portamento**

_Regan, Murphy_

_Location: McGinty's_

"Where'd ye learn t'do tha?" Murphy asked as gently as he could. His attention was still on Connor though, the slow rise and fall of his brother's chest was comforting. Regan's eyes were still red-rimmed and puffy; her hands still shaking. But she was folded up around herself, Murphy's arm wrapped around her shoulders, her head resting against his.

"I... I have a nursing degree." She admitted just as softly. Neither of them wanted to wake Connor. He'd had so much trouble falling asleep in the first place. She felt Murphy look down at her, but she didn't return the glance. Instead, she shifted beneath the blanket, and pulled it a little further up. Her old tee-shirt nightgown left her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"And ye're workin' in a bar. Oh, how the mighty have fallen." He laughed softly as he felt her knuckle dig into his leg.

"Bible quotes are off-limits!"

He could feel her smiling as she turned her face toward his chest a little further. He desperately wanted to thank her, wanted to tell her everything that happened, how Connor took the bullet meant for him, how they'd wanted so badly to sink the ship, but hadn't had time. But every time he'd tried to say something, she'd stopped him, cutting him off. He wanted to keep her talking though, he didn't want to sleep until he knew Connor was out of the woods.

"Now, 'onestly.. why t' bar?" He began to run his palm up and down her arm, telling himself it was to keep her warm.

"Aside from Grandpa?" She looked up at him now, her eyes looking almost black in the dim light of the speakeasy. "I just wasn't cut out for nursing. I graduated last May.. got placed, almost instantly, right here at Boston Children's. The put me in the Palliative care wing.. Cancer ward.. all these kids going through chemo, and radiation.. and.." her voice choked on her, seizing in her throat. Murphy tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer, until he could feel her leg pressed against his. "My first week.. we lost one.. a little girl, with the biggest blue eyes, and the most amazing smile.. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't see that much pain.."

Murph rested his cheek against her head, bringing his other arm around to hug her tight. She was good people, the kind that made what he and Connor did worthwhile. "From one calling, tae another, huh?"

"_Ar mhaith duit póg díreach aici cheana féin?_" Connor groaned, trying hard not to grin at his brother's expense. -Would you just kiss already?-

Murphy tightened his grip on Regan as she started to get up, keeping her by his side through force of grip. Besides, so long as she didn't look up, she wouldn't see the hot blush that overtook his face. "_A__ch aigne do ghnó féin! Beidh mé póg di nuair a tá mé go maith agus réidh!_" He snapped back at his brother, not caring about the vehemence of his tone. -Just mind your own business! I'll kiss her when I'm good and ready!-

Standing, Murphy gave Regan an insistent push back down. "Ye stay..." Regan looked bewildered as the two continued to bicker in Gaelic.

"_If you don't move on that soon, little brother, I'm going to have to take my chance._" Connor knew what buttons to push, which way to prod at Murphy to get a rise outta him. With his brother's help, Connor sat up, cradling his left arm carefully in his lap.

"_She'd rather kiss a fish than kiss you._" Murphy retorted, feeling his fist ball up. If Connor didn't have that big square of a bandage on his shoulder, there probably would have been a punch thrown.

"_Well, why don't we just see about that?_" Connor smirked full on at his brother, before gesturing to Regan on the floor. "Lass, why'n ye come up 'ere, put a question t'rest between m'brother an' I?"

As she kicked off the blankets, and got to her feet, Connor gave a soft cry of the Lord's name. Murphy turned even redder.

"Lookit those legs! Miles and miles!" Connor winced when he tried to gesture toward her bare legs, and feet. Regan tugged the hem of the tee-shirt down a little, self-consciously. Murphy tried to grab Connor's good hand, but missed. Instead, Connor grabbed the collar of Murph's tee-shirt, and pulled his brother over so that they looked like two heads, on one body. "Now, Regan, lass, answer me true.. which one a' us would ye rather kiss?"

That was Regan's cue to turn red, as color suffused her cheeks and spread right up to her hairline. Murphy looked mortified of his brother's behavior, while Connor just awaited the answer with twinkling eyes. Connor's ill-conceived plan backfired as Regan backed toward the door, shaking her head. She pulled the door open seconds before Romeo was waltzing back in.

Romeo turned to watch the half-naked girl bolt up the hallway, admiring her backside as she climbed the stairs again. Connor was getting off the pool table himself, when Romeo chose to pipe up.

"Man, you both tap that? That is some fine Boston ass that just left!" Crossing into the room, Romeo held his palm out to Murphy first. "Yeah! C'mon man, give me five!"

Murphy gave him five alright. He hauled back and punched Romeo hard enough to send the Mexican prizefighter reeling. Before Romeo could snap, and recover, Connor was between them, supporting his left arm with his right hand.

"'Ay! Enough!" He felt Murphy's frustration mounting behind him, but it was Romeo that realized his mistake. Opening his palms, Romeo started backing away, pointing toward the bar itself.

"I brought Dunks... breakfast.. y'know?" Romeo was making a peace offering, and even though Murphy was still steaming under the collar, he huffed, and agreed, following the others out to the bar.

* * *

><p>Regan had hoped they'd have a rare busy Wednesday in the bar, but it was a slow night. Aside from the brothers and the Mexican, there were only three others in for last call. She made it a point to spend most of her time in the back, moving between the office and the storeroom. Murphy and Connor spent most of the night at each others throats, only fallen into a sullen silence whenever Regan had to come behind the bar for something.<p>

Finally, when last drinks were being poured, Murphy abruptly stood from his stool, and started walking toward the office. Connor let him go, lifting his head to watch his brother. Murphy was always the follower, the one who went along with his cockamamie schemes and plans. Murph would follow him to the ends of the earth, if need be. So those moments, those rare times when Murphy stepped out of his shell, to reach out and grab something he wanted, those were the moments that made Connor proud of his brother.

"Sa good thing yuir already family, Doc." Connor mused, raising his glass to silently toast his brother.

Murphy didn't stop. Once he had the nerve, once he had the plan, he couldn't. There were so many things he liked about that girl. She never once questioned what they did. She never hesitated to offer aid, or help, to anyone she could. He'd seen her giving her tips to the homeless guy who used the bar as a warm place to sit. She's pulled a bullet out of Connor's shoulder and then cried for his pain.

And there were times he felt he couldn't so much as make a complete sentence around her.

The door of the office closed solidly behind him, and Regan looked up, startled. Her shoes were kicked off to one side, her legs folded up in the computer chair Indian-style. Her hair was in that messy bun again, held in place by a pencil, a few stray curls dangling in her face. Murphy didn't give her time to think; he certainly wasn't going to give her time to bolt again.

One hand turned her chair toward him; with her feet up, she was at the mercy of his whim. His other found that pencil, freeing that thick, vanilla-scented tumble of curls. Leaning down, he caught her mouth as she breathed his name, tangling his fingers into her curls. She froze beneath his onslaught, stiffening up enough that his better sense forced him to stop. He wouldn't just let her go though, keeping his hand twined in her hair. He turned to rest his forehead against hers.

"Please, Regan?" The words were whispered, as he touched the tip of his nose to hers. "Jus' dinnae tell me no.."

She raised her hand, framing his face, and very gently, she began to push him away. Murphy's eyes began to burn, as he straightened up away from her, giving her room. She couldn't find voice to say anything, her throat closing as he hunched his shoulders against the rejection.

"Alright..." As the silence stretched on, Murphy turned away, making for the door once more. As his hand curled around the handle, a flurry of movement from behind caused him to pause.

She'd gotten to her feet so quickly that the chair rolled across the room, her bare feet silent as she crossed to him. "Wait," Regan's voice was soft, and shaking as she grabbed his hand. She held him, index finger and pinky. "Murphy, it's not what you think. You scare the absolute hell out of me. Every night I wait to see what state you're in when you come through that door." One of her hands slid free, to lift and caress the fading yellow bruise outside his eye. "What happens that day you don't come back? What happens the day that trouble follows you back?"

He opened his mouth to answer her, but she laid a finger against his lips silencing him.

"I meant it when I said I don't want to know what the three of you do. If you can promise me, that I'll never have to learn.. that my grandfather will be safe... then maybe we can try this." She patted his cheek gently, licking her lower lip thoughtfully. "Slowly."

"I promise." Murphy turned to press a kiss her to palm, whispering as he did so, feeling the little thrill that ran through her. He turned his finger within her grasp, wrapping long fingers around her wrist. "Now... cin I get tha' kiss?"

This time, when he leaned down to her, she raised her face to meet him, leaning against his chest.


End file.
